


I'm Sorry

by minimoth



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, clinical depression! John, maybe somewhere between the ages of 17-20, so he's in his late teens in this, the specifics don't really matter, this takes place in AU in which John never Sburb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29179440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minimoth/pseuds/minimoth
Summary: John wishes that his dad would just stop loving him.
Relationships: Dad Egbert & John Egbert
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	I'm Sorry

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my friend, the biggest John Egbert lover I know, who (rightfully) believes that John's signs of depression in Homestuck are often overlooked by fans.

John Egbert wakes up at 1 p.m, and stays in bed ‘till 1:30. 

With a monumental exertion of effort, he shuffles over to his dresser drawer and picks out his ensemble for the day: the classic T-Shirt and cargo shorts combo, and maybe a pair of underwear, if he can be bothered (more often than not, he can’t be, as is the case for today). He wonders why he doesn’t just wear his boxers consistently, as the sensation of cargo shorts against his dick is without doubt an uncomfortable and unpleasant one, but then he remembers that every moment spent awake is already uncomfortable and unpleasant for him, so who even cares about underwear, am I right? 

Bundle of clothes in hand, he goes down the end of the hall and into the bathroom. He really needs to pee, and really needs to shower, but the idea of having to do two whole things in succession is overwhelming. So, he decides to pee in the shower for optimal efficiency, staring blankly as the lukewarm water of the shower head mingles with his piss and circles down the drain. He stands still for about 10 minutes before realizing he hasn't used shampoo or conditioner yet, to say nothing of shaving - not his chin or upper lip, mind you, but his legs and arms. (No matter how much time passes, he still can't grow any noticeable facial hair - something he regards as a personal failing). 

He wonders if people would consider him odd for this habit, him being a guy and all. He wonders if they’d stare, gawk at him unabashedly, asking themselves why such a crusty, grossly unhygienic-looking young man would have such baby-smooth legs. 

_Jesus,_ they’d think. _Guy can’t find the energy to comb his hair or brush his teeth, but he has the time to leave his legs completely hairless?_

Hey, he _did_ brush his teeth, thank you very much. At least once every couple of days. And he uses mouthwash, too. That should help, right?

He breathes into his hand and shoves his nose into the palm. 

Oh god. His breath _reeks._

Good thing he doesn’t ever go outside, so he can’t pollute the nation’s air supply with his round-the-clock morning breath, or distract them with his weirdly shiny chicken calves. 

He starts to run the razor along his legs, and cuts himself almost immediately. There’s a sizable chunk of flesh stuck between the razor blades, and he’s bleeding all over. It looks like he really hurts, but he can’t really feel anything. 

He turns the faucet off, and pulls his shrit on over his dripping wet torso, skipping the process of drying himself entirely. As he finishes pulling up his shorts, he realizes that he forgot to shampoo and conditioner his hair. 

_Fuck._

Oh, well. He’s already dressed. It’s too late to get back in now, right?

For John, It’s too late for anything, because John wakes up at 1:00 p.m, and stays in bed ‘till 1:30. 

Before exiting the bathroom, he steals a quick glance at his face in the mirror. 

Instead of bearing witness to an ugly visage that only a blind mother wombat could love, however, he sees a sky-blue sticky note, adorned with his dad’s distinctive handwriting. 

_SON._

_IF YOU ARE READING THIS, IT MEANS THAT YOU HAVE GOTTEN OUT OF BED TODAY._

_I KNOW YOU ARE HAVING A HARD TIME RIGHT NOW, BUT YOU ARE AN AMAZING YOUNG MAN. PLEASE REMEMBER THAT I AM ALWAYS HERE FOR YOU, AND THAT I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER, NO MATTER WHAT._

_I AM SO, SO PROUD OF YOU._

  
  


John peels the post-it off the class and crumples it in his fist, clenching his eyes shut. His numbing apathy is submerged in a tidal wave of guilt and self-loathing, all brought about, ironically enough, by his father’s kind words. 

What did he do to deserve his dad’s love, much less his pride? What qualities could a gross, lazy, unlovable piece of shit like him possibly possess that could redeem him in anyone’s eyes? 

John knew it was normal for parents to love their kids. Even parents of sex offenders or serial killers, or other terrible people, love their kids. It’s a biological thing, it’s not the sort of love that has to be earned. 

But John wishes it was. He was a young man now, not a baby. The socially acceptable time frame for him to be a parental parasite had long passed.

And yet, despite being so obviously undeserving of such kindness, his dad stayed by his side. And John knew that, no matter what he did, that wouldn’t change. 

John looks down at the counter, where he sees a recently-opened packet of sticky-notes on the counter, and a pen directly to the left of it. He takes post-it the same shade of bright blue as the one currently squeezed in his sopping hand, and hands up a little message of his own. 

After he finishes, he leaves to retreat to the safety of his bedroom, leaving a thin trail of blood behind him. 

When his dad returns from work, he finds a sticky note on the mirror, identical to the one he had left this morning, save for the message:

_“I’M SORRY.”_

  
  



End file.
